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Robert Rothman 



Every word is silvery and strange. I mouth
them aloud; breathe life into their bodies like

a god into clay; watch them shimmer and
shiver. Even without a comprehension

they dance into the ears. Put one with another
and hear the clash and mating. I voice a

sentence: let the magic show commence. The ones
that can’t be controlled are my favorites: the

slippage; the stumblebum; the seekers after;
the contorted syntax. A birthing into

something never heard before. Maker and
made. The sonic tumult and riot. Others

may prefer their inebriation from a bottle.
Give me syllabic shots, and I am lit.

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